The End of the Month #2

It dries like a paste,
A chalk dust that scatters like shellac,
Cranberry shards like a crushed herb
In the palm of my hand;
Fragrant to mix with oil and vinegar,
Bruised animal seasoning
From the darkest gash,
Berry seeds plucked from the warm
And syrupy muzzle of the maternal maw.

It dries in an inky, tangled nest,
Unused womb shedding skin,
Spitting dark and mysterious animal matter,
A primordial rumble spackled up
And glossed over,
Plugged in the name of propriety.

In the morning it dries under my nails,
Congealed, jellied spread
From excessive curiosity
That washes away in warm water,
Sliding gracefully into the sinkbelly
With an innocent pink curl
Before anyone else is awake.